


The Last Roadie

by foryouandbits



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Jack's Overdose, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Road Trip, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/pseuds/foryouandbits
Summary: After signing his first NHL contract, Kent Parson decides to take the long route from New York to Las Vegas. He wants to see the country. He wants to clear his head.He wants to forget Jack fucking Zimmermann.





	The Last Roadie

Everyone said not to go crazy with the money. Save it, invest it, put it away, but don't spend it. Don't look at luxury homes or jewelry until after the three years, when you're talking contract extension, the big bucks, when you know you could leave a legacy. Number one in the draft didn't guarantee a Hall of Fame career. There was work to be done first.

Kent heard this advice from everyone at once - the GM of the Aces, his agent, his lawyer, his mother - but he didn't have big plans. A house was out of the question from the start. Who knew if he'd stick in Vegas long term or if he'd get traded (he kind of hoped he'd be traded. The Aces were still new and their record reflected their lack of identity). His mother had already said the night of the draft when they sat in her hotel room, her arm around his shoulders, that he didn't need to take care of her. It was just her and she liked their townhouse. It wasn't too big and they'd been there almost his whole life. It had history. He wasn't one for jewelry either; a watch was probably the only thing he'd wear on a regular basis, and even a nice one wasn't going to dent his $900,000 contract.

$900,000. Fuck. That _was_ a lot of money.

He didn't have big plans, but when he checked his balance at an ATM and saw the signing bonus there, he turned around, drove to the Audi dealership, and bought it. They had a red one on the lot and when he took it for a test drive he felt liberated in a way he never had before. There was always something holding him back - curfews and billet family rules and practices and guilt. This was his. He could drop the top and drive on the highway with the wind in his hair. He could go anywhere he wanted to go. He was _free_. Free was a good feeling. Most of the summer he'd been chained with other feelings and this was the first time he forgot about Zimms and his lifeless eyes on the bathroom floor and his absolute silence since then.

His mother took one look at the car and laughed in an incredulous sort of way, but said it was his money and he could do what he wanted. He promised he wasn't going to buy anything else. Not yet, at least. They then drove to the ocean and back and she smiled the whole way, so it was worth it.

When they got home just after sunset she suggested he take it up to Canada, visit Jack for a bit. She didn't know he'd already tried that, maybe not in his new car, but he switched his flight back from Vegas so he could pop into Montreal for a quick visit. He hadn't told her that Mr. Z gently said it'd be best if he went home, but thanks for making the trip. Kick some ass in Vegas. He'd do great things. Kent couldn't think of great things as he choked back tears on the train.

The idea came to him after he figured out housing in Vegas - he wondered if anyone would actually offer to host him, since the team was so new and none of the veterans were really veterans, and they hadn't named a captain yet - but Dvorak offered not long after Kent signed the contract, and Dvorak had a cool wife and no kids. He could move in whenever he wanted before camp started in September, and Kent, who'd spent the better part of July exploring the state of New York, decided the trip across the country needed more than just a couple of days. Kent told his mother he'd move in August 1st. Kent told Dvorak he'd be there before camp. Having lived out of his gear bag and a suitcase since he was fourteen, he threw everything he cared about in his trunk, kissed his mother goodbye, and left home on July 31st.

He didn't know he was technically missing for most of August.

***

He'd seen New England and most of the northern part of the country from his time in juniors. He'd seen a good chunk of Canada, the parts that had people in it. The direct route from New York to Las Vegas didn't excite him, so he headed out without a map and decided to go south for a while. Pennsylvania was first, and he mostly wanted to get through it and start seeing states like Tennessee or Louisiana, but Pennsylvania showed him a valley that gave him pause and he pulled off the highway to try to find the best vantage point. Once off the highway he got lost and couldn't find that view again, but then an hour later he pulled onto a shoulder before a blue rusty bridge and got out of the car for the first time. He picked up his phone; the camera on it wasn't great but he didn't have a camera of his own, so it'd have to do. When he looked at it the battery was red and when he opened his suitcase he realized he'd forgotten his charger. He turned off his phone, threw it in the trunk, and decided the trip would be better without it.

The bridge was rusty but sturdy with a ledge wide enough for him to sit on. He could just imagine the brain explosions that would happen back in Vegas if his new GM saw him climb up onto the ledge of a bridge above a three-hundred foot drop into a skinny river and trees, and trees, and trees for miles. The danger was a little exciting; he peered over the edge and it got his heart beating, which was the whole point of it all. He was here to feel alive, and on the edge of that bridge he felt alive. He had everything right in front of him - white clouds and blue sky and green forest and reflective water. The sun was warm and the breeze was gentle and that's why he didn't drive through fucking Ohio or some other bullshit, but instead here so he could see this.

He hadn't looked at the season schedule yet so he wondered, as he stared, when he'd be back in Pennsylvania, and if he'd get to come back more than once, or if they'd stick him in a tour of the Northeast, Pittsburgh and Philly and Boston and New York. He was looking forward to those New York contests. He'd be able to get tickets for his mother and she was already teary-eyed whenever they discussed him actually playing in an NHL game. He was looking forward to these Pennsylvania games too, specifically Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh had Sid in it, and Jack had told Kent they'd best that boy. Youngest captain ever to win a Stanley Cup? Fuck that, they would both be younger than Sid when they hoisted that baby up the first time, and they'd win it every year, and before long nobody would care about Sid the Kid when Parse and Zimms were in town.

Kent's vision clouded, losing the forest for the trees and instead saw Jack's expression, vibrant and shining as he stared back at him, and Kent tackled Jack onto the bed and kissed him, and Jack held his face tenderly. They kissed and then got naked and touched each other, and it was the first time Jack asked to be inside of him and of course Kent said yes. Jack was gentle and loving and respectful and it was so perfect Kent could cry. It was what he thought holding the Stanley Cup would feel like, when Jack was inside of him, panting into his ear from behind, whispering things that you don't say to a person when you're just going to turn around and shut them out of your life when they just fucking worry about you, Jack. _Christ,_ Kent thought on that bridge in Pennsylvania, _I just worry about you._

He got off the ledge and went back to the car. He turned the music up loud and refused to look at himself in the mirror because he would have to acknowledge he was thinking about things he shouldn't think about. He didn't want to see redness in his own eyes or blotchiness in his cheeks and instead wanted to see Nashville and could probably get there before nightfall if he figured out how to get back to the highway. He found the highway and a gas station that served chicken fingers. He stocked up on road snacks and bottled water and kept on southward, following signs for Tennessee and ignoring the east coast. His school took a trip to DC like every other kid in eighth grade and his mom took him to Disney went he was seven. He went on roller coasters and met Mickey Mouse and ate too much ice cream - that part of the country had no other appeal to him, and maybe the mountains scared him a little bit so it would be best to get on the other side of them and maybe also not think about how he planned to cross the Rockies to get to Vegas. His list of things to not think about was getting really long.

He made it to Tennessee as the sun was setting and hopped out of the car on the freeway to watch it, because the whole sky was pink. Fucking Barbie _pink._ He'd seen plenty of cool sunsets in New York, especially when they went camping in the national park and hid away from everyone for a little while, but never totally pink. He sat on the trunk of his car and stared at the sun while other cars and trucks zoomed by in the lanes next to him. He couldn't understand their hurry. The sky was like Mars or something, like they settled on another planet in the futuristic colony with this weird atmosphere that changed the sun. The sky calmed down after a few minutes, melting into orange along the horizon with its usual twilight blue if he looked directly up, and then, as he continued to stare, it was gone, and he was in darkness, and the moment was over. He got back in the car and struggled to find an opening to get back on the highway; he must have been close to Nashville if there was this much traffic.

Nashville had good barbeque. He knew he was supposed to go to Memphis for that, but he covered his face and his hands in sauce and the waitress brought him extra napkins and southern hospitality, which he hoped was actually southern hospitality and not flirting because he wanted nothing to do with her and everything to do with the full rack of ribs that he demolished to her great surprise. He sucked the sauce off his fingers as he watched SportsCenter on the television in front of him, and they were talking about the Predators, which was probably because they had no one else to talk about in Nashville. He furrowed his eyebrows as he thought about their feeder team. It was in Milwaukee, wasn't it? He'd have to know that because if he got bumped down he'd go to Chicago, and then he'd have to play them. He hoped he never got bumped down. Almost everyone did, but not number one draft picks. He'd be the first that he could remember who'd get bumped down, and he worried over the taste of tangy barbeque that this would be his legacy instead of a Stanley Cup - the kid who shouldn't have been first, the kid who crumbled under expectations, the kid who finished his first season in the AHL. He touched his pocket for his phone, wanting to call his mother, when he remembered it was dead in his trunk. He didn't call his mother and instead found a hotel room to crash for the night before he continued on.

***

According to one of the maps in the hotel lobby he could drive through either Alabama or Mississippi to get to New Orleans and both seemed terrible so he picked the quickest route. The South wasn't necessarily something he wanted to see. He liked boys and the South didn't like boys who liked boys, and even though he was silent and by himself and had his professional sports career to hide behind, it still ate at him while he drove through it. When he stopped for gas at some podunk station in the middle of nowhere he kept his eyes downcast instead of toward the locals. Someone in the next aisle was filling up the biggest truck Kent had ever seen, and he was staring at Kent, although it was possible he was staring at the flashy red Audi convertible instead of the guy driving it. It wasn't a subtle vehicle.

He had to pee but elected to not go inside, not with the way people stared here, so when he filled up the tank he got inside and got back on the highway. It was dead out here apart from the occasional semi, so he pulled over and peed on a bush and thought _Fuck Alabama_ as he did. Fuck Alabama and its empty highways and its bigoted citizens. That was another thing to add to the list - don't think about being gay. Stop thinking about Zimms. Just stop thinking. Enjoy the country. That's why you did this.

When he crossed into Mississippi he had to try harder to stop thinking, because he could feel the quality of his drive change once he passed the sign alerting him of the border crossing. Mississippi was dirty and despite its "Keep Mississippi Beautiful" signs, it was hideous. Kent had to turn up his music louder and scream along with it to distract himself because he knew he was being unfair, and his discomfort with the stereotype of the worst state in the nation tainted his ability to see how beautiful the skinny trees were, how clear the sky was, how he could get lost here and see the stars just as well as in New York. 

The terrain turned swampy and Kent felt excitement tingle up his spine. There was no hockey in New Orleans but there should be, because he needed an excuse to come here whenever possible. The traffic picked up as he got closer to the city but he stayed in the right lane so he could look out for fan boats and alligators. He didn't see any. It was actually sort of sad, really, seeing some of the leftover destruction along the highway, houses on stilts that had never been repaired and abandoned shacks with no roofs. There wasn't much of it but enough to remind him of what had happened here. 

Louisiana was so different than anything he'd ever seen before. He and his mother went to the ocean a lot, but this wasn't the East Coast, this was below sea level bayou with highways built on top of canals and water just everywhere, like he was on the precipice of the world and nothing was left but the sea. The highway crossed over Lake Pontchartrain and he would have stopped to look at it but the highway wasn't meant for stopping, the lake wasn't meant for viewing. The traffic prevented him from giving it the attention it deserved and he wondered if maybe he should just spend some time here, take some tours and see it all before he moved on. What was next, Texas? Texas could wait.

The city was busy and he didn't have a hotel reservation, so it took a while to find a place he could stay for a few days. It was hot and sticky outside, like he was swimming in the swamp while walking through streets. He put on his plaid golf shorts and thought about a tank top instead of a polo shirt but it just didn't look right so he put on the polo shirt but regretted it when he stepped outside. The shirt stuck to his back between his shoulder blades while he walked toward the French Quarter. He wanted to see what the fuss was about but had no plans to actually drink since he was only eighteen and had no fake ID with him, but just as he stepped onto Bourbon Street a group of five men dressed like him toppled out of one of the daiquiri bars. 

The five men were recent college graduates from LSU celebrating someone's twenty-second birthday and joyfully adopted Kent into their group. Kent mostly hanged around behind them when new drinks were ordered because once the first two were carded no one else was and Kent was able to order whatever he wanted, and by nightfall when the pedestrian traffic picked up and the streets were closed for the evening, Kent was pleasantly wasted and had no problem picking up the tab for his five new best friends. They liked to yell and liked to drink and hollered at street performers and ogled women who wore little to no clothing. In one of the clubs the birthday boy disappeared with a pair of girls and Kent paid for more drinks to avoid questions on if he wanted to disappear with a girl too. He didn't. He wanted to be drunk and dance and sing loudly and fall over in the street when everyone decided at three o'clock that maybe it was time to go to sleep before they passed out in the center of the road and got shit on by police horses.

Kent left his best friends at Bourbon and Canal and stumbled back to his hotel. He made it all the way up to the tenth floor and into his room before he fell face-down on his bed and slept until noon, when he woke up with a pounding head and a queasy stomach. He spent the next hour kneeling in front of the toilet; he hadn't been this drunk or this hungover since that party in juniors when he finally kissed Jack for the first time. Jack had been nervous around him for weeks and it wasn't normal rookie nerves, it was definitely _I think you're cute_ nerves, which Kent could only identify because he felt them too and shoved them deep inside like he always did and kept his composure because his interpersonal comfort made Jack blush and it was adorable. They were both so incredibly drunk that Kent knew Jack wouldn't back away if Kent tried something, because when Jack got drunk he finally calmed the fuck down, and he stared at Kent in that way, that _I think you're cute_ way. Kent was the first to suggest they go back to the hotel and Jack agreed and they somehow made it there, like how Kent somehow made it back to his room in New Orleans, and once the door closed Kent grabbed Jack and kissed him and Jack kissed him hard back. Kent wanted to talk about it because they should probably talk about it rather than just do it, but instead Jack pushed him on the bed and kissed him and kissed him and they eventually wheedled their hands into each other's jeans and got each other off before they passed out.

And Jack had spent the morning like this, crouched over the toilet bowl, his head on his arms. Kent had puked in the trash can twice but was starting to feel better. Jack was shirtless and groaning but his hair was curling beautifully on the back of his head and he didn't say anything when Kent touched it, but he did mutter a _Parse, fuck off_ when Kent kissed his back between his shoulder blades. Kent laughed because it hurt and he didn't want Jack to know, but after Jack was done puking he crawled onto Kent's bed and kissed him and apologized for being crabby, but he was always crabby, so there was no need for remorse.

Kent drank a lot of water and pushed away the thought of Jack's warm body snuggled up against him in cold ass Canada. The phone in the hotel room rang and he reluctantly answered it, and it was one of the bros from the night before who apparently Kent had given his room number to, who invited Kent to a crawfish boil. Kent went and ate his weight in crawfish and drank way too much again, and maybe they were taking advantage of him paying for everything but they were fun and distracting and all of them were really cute.

The boys left town the following day so Kent left town too, because it wasn't fun without them, and he stared at the bayou on the way out. He never booked a ride on a fan boat but with his hangover he'd probably fall in and get gobbled up by an alligator, so he thought it best to just get out of Louisiana. Texas should have been next but that seemed too close to Nevada. He wasn't ready to face it, and Texas led to New Mexico, which led to Arizona, which led to Vegas. He hadn't gone anywhere in the Midwest, and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but if he was making the most of his trip he shouldn't avoid it. He'd never seen Mount Rushmore. It would be a nice, long drive to get there.

He went through Mississippi again to get to Memphis, which was long and uncomfortable, but the bridge in Memphis went over the Mississippi River, and he had to stop and look at it. Lake Pontchartrain felt like the edge of the earth but the Mississippi felt like it could swallow him whole. He walked across the bridge to the center and stared at the wide river and wanted it to swallow him whole, because excessive drinking and overeating and being with people again reminded him of what waited on the other side of Texas, and what waited for him reminded him of Jack, and he took this trip to forget that asshole, but everything was Jack and everything was the pure fact that Kent was moving on alone and Jack apparently wanted it that way. They weren't going to conquer the league together. They weren't going to lead it from both sides and face each other in the finals as the best of their conferences, and they weren't going to spend the night together after the game, fucking regardless who won, because they both won, because they were together and they did it and that's how it was always going to be. Instead Kent was alone on a bridge in between two states and staring at a river that he wanted to drown in and Jack wouldn't talk to him, and _why wouldn't Jack fucking talk to him?_

He went back to his car without yielding to the river and continued north.

***

Missouri was fine. The arch was fine. He felt claustrophobic inside the capsule that took him to the top and had to lay down in the grass underneath it for an hour and stare at the sky until he felt like he wasn't trapped any longer, that he was part of the big expanse of the universe again. St. Louis had good food. Kansas City had good food. Kansas, on the other hand, had nothing. And even worse, Nebraska looked like it was going to be another state of nothing. About ten minutes into it he saw the rain coming, thick drops on the road in front of him and got the top up just in time for a torrential downpour. He couldn't hear his music. He couldn't see the road. It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He pulled over and waited it out and it felt like it lasted forever, crashing onto his vehicle in a deafening, rushing sound, louder than any rain he'd ever heard. He could see the end of the storm coming from the brightness at the end of the road. It grew less and less dark and more and more bright until the rain stopped all at once. He turned on the car and ran the wipers a few times, and that was it. The storm continued on in his rear view mirror, darkness headed in the opposite direction, and in front of him the light returned. He put his hand on the gearshift to continue back on when he looked up and saw the clouds. The gray was gone from them. He lowered the top and reclined his seat and look straight up into it. They were enormous, white and fluffy and covering most of what he could see, but not overcast like in winter, just everywhere with patches of blue to remind him that the day was warm and peaceful.

He stared at it until his stomach grumbled and realized for the first time in an hour that he'd thought nothing at all, but the acknowledgement of his lack of thoughts brought them all back. Everything was there - his mother back in New York, Vegas and the work that came with it, and on the other side of the continent there was Zimms, at home and not with him, and maybe they'd never speak again. Kent sat up and started the car again but got off at the next exit and turned back south. He couldn't stand hours of nothing to look at and just a big rock on the other side, so Texas would be best.

Dallas had great food and interesting people. He stood in line for barbeque and watched a man with a ten gallon hat and a long sleeved plaid shirt order a tray of brisket and then watched him proceed to eat it all with a large bowl of complimentary beans. Dallas had normal people too, not just the cowboys, but they were far less fun to watch. Kent drove by the Stars' stadium but didn't go inside. It'd be soon enough before he was there for real. He listened to country for about five minutes before he couldn't stand it any longer, although he had difficulty finding anything else on the radio. When he approached Austin the radio selection was a lot better. He found a music venue that would let him in without being twenty-one and listened to a really good band until closing time. He bought their CD and put it on the next morning when he got back on the road.

He was headed west toward El Paso but was not satisfied with just heading west. El Paso was close to Mexico and New Mexico. As the CD ended and he had to think again, he wondered if maybe Zimms had the right idea leaving the draft, because he didn't have to worry if he'd be good or not, if he'd click with his team, if he could tell them he was gay without fear of them hating him, or tormenting him, or laughing him out of the league. That would probably be easier, but at the same time, that wasn't why he left his mother at fourteen to live in Canada and work every single day toward just this - the team on the other side of the mountains that he was actively avoiding.

El Paso felt like home, in a weird sort of way, like he could stay there forever. It was nothing like New York, all dusty terrain and no grass. On the way in, he pulled off the highway and drove around some neighborhoods, marvelling at the difference in the houses. A lot of them had replaced their yards with rocks or stone, some of them left the tan dirt that picked up and twirled in the warm breeze. The houses with grass looked out of place, like they were desperate for a life somewhere else, but Kent stopped in front of house that was very much a southwestern home - terracotta roof, brick designs around the windows, white stucco, red rock and masonry instead of grass. There were a few smaller bushes that looked thirsty in the heat but very few outdoor plants overall. It was the kind of house the ate a hole in Kent's pocket, but it wasn't for sale, and he was being a creeper, sitting in his convertible on the curb just staring at it. He reluctantly drove away, the image of it burned into his mind, and found his way back to the highway.

He booked a room downtown and could see the border from his window, and he stared at it while basking in the air conditioning, because once again it was too hot to function outside. He thought about pulling up the weather in Vegas on his computer but decided against it - if it was this hot in Texas, it was even worse in the desert. He touched the bridge of his nose and it felt sore and raw; he was not using sunscreen and his mother would kill him if she knew, but the wind was so nice with the top down. It let him feel like a part of the world he drove through, even if that world burned his nose.

The receptionist had a lot of recommendations for authentic Mexican restaurants, and Kent requested one that felt like a grandma's house, like you were eating with family. He didn't care if he had to drive to the other side of the city, but it turned out just to be back the way he came, in Socorro. When he stepped inside a woman who could have been his grandmother stepped from behind a counter and approached him - she had dark eyes like his mother but his own blonde hair. The top of her head reached his chest so he could confirm that she dyed her hair. There were only about ten tables in the restaurant and only one of them was filled, which was why the woman had the opportunity to greet him personally at the door. She ushered him to a table and bemoaned his weight. According to his new management team he was an ideal weight for his height, but his new grandmother found him much too skinny, and before he could even look at the menu she pointed out several things for him to eat to bulk him up. He let her order for him, since from her accent she clearly knew what she was talking about. After she put his order in with the kitchen she returned, sat across from him, and they talked for twenty minutes about El Paso and Mexico and her children until a bell dinged in the kitchen and she got up to retrieve his order. He took one bite and almost cried and she smiled at him sweetly, patted his hand, and let him eat his meal.

He stayed in El Paso for at least a week, wandering the city and learning its nooks and crannies, its highs and lows, and ate at the restaurant in Socorro every day. It wasn't until the hostess asked him why he kept coming back that he admitted he didn't want to move on, and she hit him in the back of the head and served his meal in a to-go container. He reluctantly left with his enchiladas and frijoles to-go and left El Paso the next morning. The route toward Vegas seemed too close, though, and he hadn't gone north in a while, so he took the route to Denver, knowing he'd have to come back down since the Rockies seemed too big and too scary to drive through.

It was late, and he should probably find the nearest hotel to crash for the night, but then the wind blew all of the clouds out of the way and Kent realized he hadn't seen anyone in miles. There were no streetlights on this highway. There were no other headlights. And now, with the clouds gone, there were thousands and thousands of stars surrounding him. The road was flat and straight so he took a moment to look around, but he was so lost in the sky he felt dizzy. He pulled off the road, turned his lights off, and hopped onto the hood of the car to recline against the windshield and just look.

He didn't know how long he was going to stay in Colorado, or what he would do in Denver when he got there, but there was no rush. He had no idea what day it was, or if he'd spent so long in El Paso that he missed the start of camp, but it was worth it to get this opportunity to watch the stars in a place where there was nothing else. It was so big and he was so small, and it made him feel insignificant. It was probably a good thing, because he didn't know how he was going to be treated once he got to camp. People might think he was a big shot or people might think he was an arrogant child with a lot to learn, and he didn't know which was right, but he was terrified to find out. People in El Paso didn't know him. People in El Paso didn't care about hockey. He tried to talk to his new grandmother about it but she didn't care about hockey and instead talked about how her sons used to play football, but not American football, real football from Mexico. 

It was soothing to know that nobody cared about him or knew what waited for him on the other side of those mountains to the west. The stars sunk behind the mountaintops; he couldn't really see them despite the clarity of the night, but he knew they were there by the irregularity of the horizon. He'd have to go over them eventually. They were expecting him. He looked to the east - Montreal was so far now but he wondered if he had time to go back and try again, try one more time to see him before life started again. 

Mr. Z told him to stay away but Mr. Z had always been brash and protective, especially after he found out. Kent thought they were doing a good job of hiding but Jack was certain they knew and decided to tell them, and he was right. They knew, but Mr. Z also knew the importance of keeping something like this private, and he told Kent so, late one night after Jack had gone to bed and Kent went to the kitchen for water. He and Zimms had had sex and hadn't cleaned up well so Kent knew he reeked but Mr. Z didn't say anything about that, instead warned Kent about how this couldn't keep up, especially not after the draft, and if Kent were smart and really cared about Jack, he'd break it off as soon as possible and give Jack one less thing to worry about. They'd gotten into it there in the Zimmermann kitchen; Kent wasn't going to give up Jack, he and Jack were endgame. They were meant to be together. They could be quiet about it, especially since they were destined for different teams. The thought of breaking it off now, when it was great and they were in love, was just stupid. And Kent was loud and Mr. Z was loud and despite the size of the house they still woke up Jack and Mrs. Z and Kent legitimately thought Mr. Z was going to throw a punch before Mrs. Z calmed him down, and Jack brought Kent back upstairs, where his parents watched them walk into his room together, holding hands. Jack wanted to talk but Kent wanted to fuck, so they fucked again and Kent held him close all night and breathed him in and when he woke up -

"Son. Son, wake up."

Kent opened his eyes and blinked several times. It was morning, and he wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he'd been with Jack and Jack was so soft and solid and right there with him, but Kent was nowhere, on the side of a quiet highway on top of his car with the bright morning sunlight to the east. The police officer who'd awoken him cautiously put a hand on his gun when Kent sat up. _Crap_ , he thought, knowing full well he shouldn't be sleeping on the side of the road, but he didn't say anything.

"Are you Kent Parson?"

 _Double crap_ , Kent thought. This was not how he first expected to be recognized, in the nowhere part of Colorado by a police officer whose vehicle was parked behind his, the lights flashing, probably about to be ticketed for reckless behavior.

"Yes," Kent said.

"Son, you know how long we've been looking for you? You've been missing for weeks."

"What? I'm not missing. I'm on my way to Vegas."

"For twenty-something days? Doesn't take that long to get across the country. Come on, kid. I'm taking you back to the station and calling your mother."

Kent went with minimal outward reluctance. It was an hour drive to the station and he had a short call with his hysterical mother, who reported him missing when she couldn't get a hold of him for two days and Dvorak said Kent never arrived or checked in. He called Dvorak and promised to get there within twenty-four hours. Dvorak calmed his nerves; despite his mother reporting him to the police, the Aces kept the situation quiet and he wasn't the subject of national news. After what had just happened with Jack, they didn't need another scandal involving a top draft pick. Since Kent hadn't actually done anything wrong, he was escorted back to his vehicle and handed a ticket for $250. Kent begrudgingly took it and begrudgingly turned around at the next exit to start back to New Mexico. He stopped at the next truck stop and purchased a car charger for his phone.

He stopped in Arizona for the night and called both Dvorak and his mother to inform them of this, and made the final trek to Vegas. He considered lifting the top and blasting the air conditioning as it was starting to get unbearably hot, but he sucked it up and appreciated the last few miles of open air before he was stuck inside and away from the beautiful country he'd spent the last few weeks seeing with new eyes.

He could see the Strip in the distance and excitement filled his chest. This was it, and this was his life. The grandeur of Vegas against the barren wasteland of the desert was his paradise and as he turned up the radio, the Backstreet Boys brought him into the city and he screamed at the top of his lungs. He was over the speed limit but he didn't care - this was his home, his domain, and he felt the king of it already. While he flew down the highway toward home he yelled _I wish I could believe that there's a day you'll come back to me, but still I have to say I would do it all again_.

And he decided as he approached his kingdom that there would be a day Jack would come back to him. It started here. There was no room for worry, for fear of being less than what others expected. He would win it all - the Calder award, the first Stanley Cup, and Jack. He would be so good there would be no escaping him. Jack, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, would not be able to escape Kent Parson. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago in one sitting, and then forgot about it. I was having serious Kent Parson feels at the time.
> 
> Pop over by [my tumblr](https://foryouandbits.tumblr.com/) and shout about how angsty this boy is.


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